“The word balcony is borrowed from Italian balcone,” Phoebe says. “Derived from medieval Italian balco, which originally meant ‘scaffold.’ And that comes from a Proto-Germanic word balkô, which probably meant something like ‘beam.’”
The bride stands there, confused.
“So, taken all together, we know that the word balcony originally referred to the beam or structure that holds up the balcony.” Phoebe releases a long, slow exhale of smoke before her final conclusion. “That’s how far outside the room it is. The balcony is not even the balcony.”
“Who are you?” the bride asks.
The bride sounds genuinely impressed, and Phoebe will admit that she has not lost the capacity to enjoy this kind of moment. Knowledge is power, all her teachers told her as a kid, which is why she spent the best part of her youth in quiet corners of libraries, reading books as quickly as she could. She wanted to be stronger, bigger. She knew that she would never be taller than her father, never be bigger or stronger, and that this was the only way to one day see beyond her father’s house.
“I’m a Victorianist,” Phoebe says.
“Huh?”
“A nineteenth centuryist,” Phoebe rephrases, thinking it might make more sense to the bride.
“I still don’t know what that means,” the bride says.
“I research nineteenth-century literature.”
“And people pay you for this?”
“Not well.”
“And the nineteenth century is really the 1800s?”
“Right.”
“I always have the hardest time with that.”
“A lot of my students do.”
“But I’m twenty-eight. I work at an art gallery,” the bride says. “I should know that.”
Phoebe is surprised enough by this new information to want to ask her first question of the bride.
“Are you a curator?” Phoebe asks.
“That’s my mother,” the bride says. “I’m her assistant. But one day, I’m supposed to be the curator.”
Lila waits as if Phoebe should ask follow-up questions, but Phoebe doesn’t want to know anything more.
“Though honestly, after I get married, I think I’m going to quit,” the bride says. “I’m just not very good at it.”
She confesses to getting Bs all the way through her art history degree in college.
“I never understood why my mother was so obsessed with art. I studied it for four years, and honestly, I get it even less now. Like seriously, what’s the point of it?”
Again, the bride looks at Phoebe and waits.
“Are you asking me?” Phoebe asks.
“Have you never been in a conversation before?”
“It’s been a while, actually.”
“I can tell.”
“And to be honest, I’m not sure I get the point, either.”
When Phoebe left for graduate school, she had very clear and beautiful ideas about art, how art is what elevates us, art is the magnificence wrung from the ugly dish towel of existence. Art helps us feel alive. And this had been true for Phoebe—Phoebe used to read books and feel astounded. She used to walk around galleries, inspired by the beautiful human urge to create. But that was years ago. Now she can’t stand the sight of her books. Can’t bear the thought of reading hundreds of pages just to watch Jane Eyre get married again.
“Well, that’s a relief to hear,” the bride says, like they’re old cousins again. “Nobody ever admits that. Everyone at the gallery walks around like, Oh, my, look at this white canvas. Look at what this painter has done with all this white space. He has chosen not to paint it! He has defied the conventions of painting by not actually painting! Isn’t that bold? Doesn’t that make you want to pay thousands of dollars for it? And some of the people are like, Yes, yes, it does, actually.”
Phoebe can feel how easy it would be to slip into this casual conversation about the false promises of art. She can feel herself wanting to rant about literature and how it didn’t end up saving her in the end, but the sun is starting to set. Phoebe is halfway done with her second cigarette. She looks back at the pills on the nightstand.
“What did you come in here for again?” Phoebe asks.
The bride seems offended by the directness of the question.
“I came to tell you to stop smoking,” the bride says with that edge to her voice again. “And to warn you that if you don’t change your mind about…”
But she can’t say the words.
“Killing myself?” Phoebe says.
“Yes. Then I am going to tell the front desk.”
“They can’t make a paying guest leave because the guest is sad.” Phoebe is amused by the thought. “‘I am so sorry, but we’ve all had a vote, and we’ve come to the conclusion that you are too sad to be here.’”
